Sparkles

by Louise Bagshawe

  When Sophie looked at her, she wondered if the girl ever relaxed.

  I’ll bet her underwear is matched and a shade of either pale lilac or blush pink, Sophie thought—

  “I’m wondering what’s going on,” Judy said, brightly.

  Sophie blushed a little at her train of thought. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you had me call Herr and Frau Brandt.”

  Their designers. Sophie nodded.

  “And we’ve issued no press statements for the last month, but now you’ve summoned the whole department.” Judy tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’d like to get a jump on whatever you’re going to announce.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m kind of flying by the seat of my pants,” Sophie said, trying out an Americanism on Judy.

  “You sure are,” she said. “You don’t mind if I offer some constructive criticism?”

  “That’s what I’m paying you for,” Sophie said, easily. “Nobody has to be afraid to speak their mind around me.”

  Judy tried, and failed, not to stiffen. “Then I gotta tell you, you need to come clean. We fired all those guys, and that’s good, but you’ve been holed up with the lawyers, the stores are closed, designers are getting commissions . . . I can’t stave off the press forever. And the rest of the staff needs to know what’s up. Morale is nonexistent.”

  Sophie said gently, “But you’ve been talking them up, Judy. Reassuring them?”

  Judy started slightly. “Me? Oh, sure. Of course.”

  “Then all you need do is wait till eleven.” Sophie sighed. “It’d take me too long to repeat everything; I’m just going to get a rundown from the staff, and then tell them my plans. After that your team can start talking to the press. You can write the press releases once we’ve had the meeting.”

  Judy nodded. She felt humiliated, again, but wasn’t about to show it. Not to Sophie Massot, of all women. If Sophie didn’t want to share, that was fine with Judy. She could not care less.

  Judy knew perfectly well there was no way of saving this company. It was worse than she had ever suspected.

  “I can hardly wait,” she said, smiling. And it was true. She wanted to watch Sophie fall on her face. What kind of a rabbit did she think she could pull out of the hat? The trophy wife, who hadn’t trained in business a day in her life?

  “Then I’ll see you at eleven.” Sophie smiled back, but Judy took the comment for what it was, a dismissal. She rose carefully.

  “See you then,” Judy said.

  Judy closed the door behind her. Fine, let Sophie keep her pathetic little secrets. She would indeed enjoy the 11 a.m. meeting. Sophie would finally spill whatever plans she had for the company, if you could call them that. Brilliant, so far—close down the jewellery stores, the only part of Massot actually making money; send the stock through the floor. Judy was thankful she’d sold hers years ago, or her net worth might have plunged.

  She smoothed down the chiffon of her dress as she headed back to her office.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” said Marie respectfully.

  Judy nodded. “Bonjour.”

  Since the day Gregoire got fired, everything had been different. There were no more looks and whispers. Judy was sure the rumours still went on, but they went on out of her earshot. Everybody knew she had the ear of Mme Sophie, and when blood had started flowing, Judy was there, directing it. Françoise, M. Keroualle’s own secretary, had been reassigned to the typing pool!

  Nobody else wanted that. Judy was now deferred to and respected. And feared. Marie, when pressed, had reluctantly told Judy her new nickname was Mlle La Guillotine. But far from being furious, Judy had laughed.

  She could hardly help it. The release of tension was necessary. Judy’s emotions were seesawing all over the place; day to day, she had no idea how she kept herself together. It was a constant battle, and she thanked God she was in PR and knew how to lie for a living.

  Of course she had to see Sophie. See that wedding ring, every day. Watch Sophie take ownership here, in Pierre’s place; Judy’s love, the man who had never cared two straws for Sophie. That was bitter, and time did not make it any better. Every day that Sophie Massot came here, impeccably, quietly elegant, asserting her rights, was another day that part of Judy died.

  On the other hand, she knew, she had never had such an opportunity. The stupid, spoiled bitch liked her. Of all the people in the world, Sophie was giving Judy the chance to be revenged on those who had scorned her, muttered about her, laughed at her, kept her down. It was through Sophie that she had finally got rid of Giles and was running the divison, at last. Through Sophie that she got the money Gregoire had cheated her of. The fact that she no longer had to run the gauntlet of stares was wonderful. Judy was feared, and she triumphed, savagely, in her new power.

  But even the triumph had a bitter edge. Judy had longed to head the division for so long, and now she could not care less about it. What joy was there in heading PR when Sophie had the whole company? What pleasure in being a senior vice president if Pierre’s wife was chairman?

  She hated Sophie for it. Achieving her dreams, and finding them ashes.

  Judy didn’t know, yet, exactly what she was going to do. But she knew what she wanted. Money, real money, a slice of what everybody else was getting. Power, not just being the head of some stupid division, reporting to Sophie. She would not rest until Sophie Massot respected her, as an equal. No, Judy thought: a superior. She was not about to put herself on the level of some placid fool of a woman who had married for money, a woman who’d had Pierre next to her all those years and never let him touch her heart.

  Lastly, of course, she wanted revenge. She had suffered humiliation for too long to turn the other cheek. Enough of all that; nobody would pity Judy Dean anymore.

  Sophie was about to reveal her plans. And then Judy would decide what to do with them.

  She thought she already had a pretty good idea. There was one person who would, most definitely, be in the market for that sort of information.

  Hugh Montfort.

  Chapter 23

  Heinrich Brandt sat next to his wife, Gertrud, and tried not to look as nervous as he felt.

  The room was carpeted with a thick blue weave, navy, and its walls were painted in soothing Wedgwood blue. On the long table were vases of cream and pink roses, a cheerful splash of colour, heavily scented, and in front of the old couple, and all the executives seated around them, were glasses of fresh citrons pressés with crushed ice. Everything had been done to make the atmosphere pleasant. But it did not help him much.

  Herr Brandt did not want to be here. He lived with Gertrud, quietly, in a small village near Wengen, in Switzerland; one without too many ski runs. It escaped the worst of the tourists in winter and was sheer delight in summer. His house was very comfortably appointed, with the fees from twenty years of designing jewels for House Massot; he hated to leave it.The Brandts’ concessions to the modern world were as few as they could manage: a studio, for sketching new designs; a workshop, attached to the house; and a fax machine. If he had to communicate with Paris, that was the way he preferred to do it.

  But the skinny, hard-looking American girl in the rich clothes had rung them and insisted. And Gertrud told Heinrich not to say no. They should have saved more, but their eldest daughter had gotten married and needed an apartment, and property in Geneva . . . while Hans, their son, had gotten it into his head he wanted to take an MBA at Harvard.

  This cost money. A lot of money.

  Heinrich knew only that House Massot was in big trouble, and there was a possibility his checks would stop coming. He fretted about it. He was presently sixty-five. What other house would take on a designer from a firm that was about to go bust? Harvard was off, and the Geneva flat would need remortgaging. He thanked God he owned his chalet free and clear.

  This had to be bad news. Heinrich glanced out of rheumy eyes at his wife. Her sharp gaze was scanning the room, taking it all in, as he had. For all t
he convivial arrangements—there was a sideboard laden with coffee, warm croissants, fruit, and charcuterie—nobody seemed relaxed. The men and American woman were sitting there, as tense as he was. Perhaps they too were anxious about money. But then again, who was not?

  He understood that changes had come since the widow of the founder took over. Heinrich disliked all change, especially when it affected him. His wrinkled hands gripped the tall glass of citrons pressés and he took a nervous sip. It was delicious, but he would have preferred a shot of schnapps.

  The door opened and a woman came in. Everybody stood; this must be the widow, he thought. She was a beautiful woman, dark haired and elegant; Gertrud twenty years ago had never looked that good. She was wearing a fitted black suit that showed off a slim, yet delightfully curved, body, a shirt of ivory satin, and two thick rows of pearls, which he noted at once were over fourteen millimetres apiece, lustrous and quite magnificent.

  His baleful glare softened just a touch. On her right hand she was wearing a simple solitaire, a ruby ring, emerald cut in four carats, translucent and extremely fine. It was one of his wife’s pieces; they had made it perhaps twelve years ago. He remembered the stone. They had both agreed it would be criminal to ruin such fine material by crowding it with any other accents. Not even the clearest diamonds could enhance such a ruby.

  He supposed if he were to be ruined, it would at least be by a woman of taste.

  “Please don’t get up,” she said, and they all sank to their chairs again. “This shouldn’t take long. I am going to outline our plans for House Massot, and then Miss Dean will begin to form her strategy, as to how best to release them to the media.”

  She turned and looked straight at Heinrich.

  “Herr and Frau Brandt, it is a great honour to have you here.”

  “You did not give us much of a choice, Fräulein,” Gertrud said, but Heinrich nudged her in the ribs.

  “Thank you for the Fräulein, but I haven’t deserved that for two decades,” the widow said, smiling most disarmingly. “And I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you. But you and Frau Brandt are the heart of House Massot and of everything we plan to rebuild.”

  There was a short, stunned silence.

  “Then you did not bring us here to dismiss us?” Gertrud rasped.

  “Dismiss you?” She shook her dark head. “Gnädige Frau, why on earth would I want to do that? You are the most precious asset this company possesses.”

  Gertrud hesitated; Heinrich could see her trying, and failing, to repress her plainspoken nature.

  “I have read your company is about to fail. We thought surely you will wish to replace us with younger—modern—designers. Ones that string citrines and canary diamonds on chicken wire. And such things,” she said, with contempt.

  Sophie Massot smiled. “No indeed. House Massot does not make trash.”

  Judy Dean said, “It is trash that sells.”

  “To Mayberry customers,” Sophie responded. “Not to ours.”

  Judy smiled thinly. “If I may, Sophie—it has been very hard to get Elle and In Style to cover our collections. Even our jewellery collections.”

  Sophie inclined her head. “Of course; we do not sell to Elle readers. Nor should we be trying to.”

  She leaned forward, placing her hands on the table, holding the gaze of everybody in the room.

  “While my husband has been gone,” Judy stiffened, but Sophie did not see it, “House Massot has lost its soul. We have diversified, with no success. The fashion division is an embarrassment.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  “Our jewellery has lost ground to Tiffany, to Cartier, and especially to Mayberry. But it is different from all those houses. We are more individual than either Tiffany or Cartier. Our pieces are designed by Heinrich and Gertrud, made by skilled artisans. They are one-off—they are bespoke. And at the same time, the prices reflect this.” Sophie glanced at Judy. “I’m afraid we’ve been advertising where there are no customers. We are haute couture, and whatever we may do in the future, at present we need our core customers back.”

  She paused.

  “They will not return with the way House Massot is now. Shabby stores filled with underpaid attendants who do not love jewellery and who take no pride in either their work or appearance. Pieces crowded together, their beauty unable to breathe. And our marque devalued by the travesty of a fashion division that nobody wears and nobody buys.”

  “But change will take years,” said one of the executives, a man, combatively.

  Sophie shook her head. “We do not have years, Monsieur.”

  “To reform the fashion division? Find new designers . . . spend on advertising . . .”

  “I am closing the fashion division, effective immediately,” Sophie said flatly.

  The man blinked. “You can’t.”

  “I can. And as of nine o’clock this morning, I have.”

  Judy spluttered, “But—but those are assets. All the stock. The collections. We could sell them, find a buyer . . .”

  “And have them go out with the name Massot? It will devalue the jewellery.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” Judy protested, forgetting herself. She thought of all the pleading, all the jockeying, the work she had done over that stupid label. The endless calls to New York, the bribes to journalists at the fashion shows in Milan and Paris, even London—no show had been too minor for her, when she was grubbing for notice.

  And for what? Sophie was junking it.

  “Judy,” she said. “Let me ask you. Would you wear it?”

  Judy swallowed hard. She was forced to reply, “No.”

  “No more would I. I went to Maison de Lis yesterday to have my hair done.” That was one of the most expensive and chic salons in Paris; Judy saved up to go there once a year for her signature cut, which she then had trimmed at cheaper places. She nodded.

  “It was very crowded,” Sophie said, relentlessly. “I saw Prada, I saw Versace, I saw Richard Tyler, I saw Chloé . . . I never saw one Massot piece. Not even a bag.”

  “The banks won’t let you eliminate those assets,” another man said.

  “They have no choice. They lent money to the company, not to a division. And the loans are not due for three months.”

  “I am already taking calls from our bankers,” he insisted, anxiously.

  “Then you may reassure them that their loans will be repaid on time,” Sophie said, calmly.

  “And how do you plan to reclaim our customer base? What you see as our customer base,” Judy asked.

  Sophie said, “If you’ll just look at the projector, ladies and gentlemen.”

  She dimmed the lights in the room and took up the button that controlled the screen. Judy heard a soft click and the screen filled with an image.

  Judy stared. She heard slight intakes of breath all around her.

  “This is what I’ve been doing for the last few weeks,” Sophie said. “The store designers and I worked in secret; you will excuse me, but I didn’t want our plans to leak out prematurely.”

  “It’s quite beautiful, Madame,” a man said, and there was a small ripple of applause in the darkness.

  Jealousy surged in Judy’s chest, thick jealousy, and rage. She felt quite light-headed. She was thankful the room was dark; in her lap, her fingers twisted, the knuckles clenched.

  She was gazing at a picture of a House Massot showroom.That was what it had to be, but the interior was unrecognizable. Out had gone the long cases, the beige carpet, the dull lighting. Instead, the walls were dressed in a silky, delicate shade of palest pink, the display stands were painted in grass green, and the floors were covered in boards of polished oak. There was natural, recessed lighting in the ceiling; the display cases, instead of lining the walls, were grouped in five or six individual stands, around the room. The dull wheat-coloured linings had been replaced with inky blue velvet, and individual pieces glittered against them; even from the photograph’s distance, you could make
out a necklace here, a ring case there. Marble plinths covered in cascading showers of fresh roses, pale greens, pinks, and blues, were everywhere. The effect was supremely feminine, floral, and expensive.

  It took Judy’s breath away. She instantly wanted to go shopping.

  Sophie pressed the button again. A man and a woman stood in the frame, impeccably dressed. The woman was wearing classic Chanel in pink tweed; the man a sober, dark suit.

  “And these are our customers,” Judy said.

  Sophie laughed. “Actually, these are our shop assistants. The young woman is Mlle Claudette Chiron, the new manager of our flagship store on rue Faubourg. The young man with her is M. Edouard Peguy, a former history of art student at the Sorbonne. He now manages our store on rue des Princes.”

  “They look pretty rich to be shop assistants,” a man said.

  “That’s the point; those are the new uniforms. Men’s are made in Savile Row, in England; women’s are by Chanel.”

  Judy raised her eyebrows. “We are dressing our shop assistants in Chanel?”

  “The customer of House Massot is receiving nothing but the best, in service, in atmosphere.” Sophie flicked on the lights and nodded at the Brandts. “And of course, in gems.”

  She could never wear her yellow Chanel again, Judy thought. Not in this office. She stared at Sophie, her heart thudding with jealous loathing, so hard she thought the older woman must sense it.

  But Sophie was ignoring her. She was smiling that aggravating, calm smile of hers, nodding at the Brandts.

  “Gnädige Frau, mein Herr,” she said, politely. “It is the genius of your designs that will now be in the spotlight. They have always been our strength, but lately that strength has been hidden. I propose to double your salary and grant you stock options, and ask, in exchange, that you select at least ten additional young designers that we will put on the payroll, and then train them to your own exacting standards.”

  The old man stood up, and Judy could see his eyes were red. She groaned inwardly. He wasn’t about to cry, was he?